Eyes Claimed by Red
by Patience Tyme1
Summary: When he saw who had done it-who had shot his rabbit, who had dared to mention her-when his eyes took in the man who had claimed his vest at the crossroads, all they saw was a consumption of red hot anger. This piece-part two in my Bethyl Week series-is an altered excerpt from SSTL, my finished work. But it can be enjoy independently by those who haven't read the original story!


**This is the second piece in my Bethyl Week series. As I announced in ****_Secret_****, this scene will be one of those that is lifted from my full-length work entitled Settling, Surviving, Thriving, Living, albeit edited and altered to fit the theme of the event for the day. As such, it can be appreciated by those who have and have not read SSTL :-)**

**Please note that, while these pieces are part of a larger story, they are stand-alone one-shots; therefore, they do not follow the chronological order of the show. The selections will be posted to follow the schedule of the prompts for the event. Once Bethyl Week is over, I will create a separate story and re-post the one-shots in chronological order there :-)**

Long before the sun intended to come up the next morning, he got himself up and rolled out from underneath their barbed wire, bow in hand. He hadn't gotten shit for sleep, as his mind just continued to see red—continued to fall to anger and self-loathing, continued to circle and go down roads that were definitely not helpful, given his circumstances.

At first he just walked, looking for any form of a distraction. Anything would do, he thought, just so long as he wasn't curled in a ball back at the camp, doing nothing but feeling sorry for himself.

With time, his stomach reminded him that life was still moving on. It demanded attention and, as soon as it got even barely bright enough for him to see and make out tracks, Daryl started following the prints of a rabbit.

He set to it silently, following the trail as well as he could in the still lingering shadows. By the time the sun had come up, not only was he bordering on starving, he had managed to track down the little asshole.

Daryl lowered himself into a crouch as he setup his shot. Just as he made his move, his reflexes put him on high alert, as a small object flew right by his eye. When his eyes met his prey, another flash of red darted across his eye line, as he knew immediately what had happened. The question only remained who the hell had the balls to do it.

When he turned to take in the asshole in question, he wasn't surprised in the least. "What the hell ya doin'?" Daryl spoke and realized it was the first time a word had come out of his mouth since the crossroads the previous day. Regardless, his tone was all red—clear in its read of anger.

"Catchin' me some breakfast," the guy said, his expression stern and confident. It was the one who had wanted his vest the day before, at the crossroads. That may be all he knew of the asshole, but it was more than enough for Daryl.

"Nah," he started, walking over to his catch and scooping it up, noting the release of red blood and unnecessary beating the meat would've taken from the unnecessary extra arrow. Another flash of red bled across his vision, painting the terrain ahead of him—physically showing up on his line of sight, mixing into the blood on the ground at the thought of this asshole ruining his catch. "That's mine."

"My arrow's the one that hit first!" he said and Daryl bit back a response at how the asshole sounded like he was five and had just lost his favorite toy to the bully. "Cotton tail belongs to me."

"Been out here since before the sun came up," he bit out instead, as he continued to eye up the rabbit.

"Ya see, the rules of the hunt?" he started, taking a step closer to Daryl. "They don't mean jack out here. Now that rabbit you holdin' is claimed, boy." His nickname made Daryl's skin crawl; yet another flash of red rolled by, as he did his best to reel in his rage. "_Claimed_, whether you like it or not. So, if I'd's you, I'd hand it over. Now. 'Fore you get to wishin' you ain't never get outta bed this mornin'."

By the look on this asshole's face, he honestly didn't seem to think Daryl would fight in the least, let alone that he would actually lose. Taking one look at the twig, Daryl knew the odds were on his side. He could practically feel the red bloodlust creeping up his throat at the thought.

_Doesn't matter_, her voice appeared to him; he'd know it instantly, no matter what, no matter how much time they spent separated. He bit back the impulse to respond that it did—it_ did_ matter. But, he realized, it only did if he made it. Sure, he could take this guy. Didn't mean he needed to. Really, asshole wasn't worth it. Not by a long shot.

And, just like that, his red had faded a bit, ebbed away by her voice—all full of sunshine and yellows, just like her and her unmovable hope.

"Ain't yours," he said, obviously still rather angry. But he wasn't succumbing to that burning red bloodlust—wasn't choosing to fight—and that was all anyone could ask for now.

Knowing this was an already tense situation that could cause him to stew over at any minute, he walked past the asshole, fully intending to return to the camp, rabbit still in hand.

"You know," the guy started. His voice was like nails on a chalkboard to Daryl. He kept moving, not even looking back at him. Still, he could hear the smile in the asshole's voice already. "I'd bet…it's a _bitch_, got you all messed up."

Just like that, he stopped walking, his feet halting as if by habit. That burning _red_ returned again, resumed a tight hold—consuming everything, bleeding into his eyesight, tinting everything he set eyes on with a fire of fury.

He had yet to turn around though. He didn't trust himself enough to do that. That bloodlust was just brewing under the surface, waiting impatiently to boil over the pot.

"Hmm? Am I right? Gotchu walkin' 'round here, like a dead man…just lost yourself a piece of tail." Daryl's breathing got slower, deeper, as he tried to focus, tried to push that now solely overshadowing red out of his eyesight. He tried to keep his temper calm—tried to not let the red consume his actions, even as his hand started making its way to his knife. Beth's voice, he noticed, was conveniently gone now.

"Musta been a good 'en. Tell me somethin'." Daryl kept his cool on the outside, his hand just steadily approaching the hilt. But on the inside that red fire was burning hot. He wouldn't make his move unless he had had to—he knew that was what Beth would want. But if this asshole insisted on carrying on like this about her, he wouldn't have any other choice.

Even though he felt like he was on the edge, his eyesight completely screwed over by seeing red everywhere, he noticed there were no physical or externally visible hints of his turmoil—no shaking or otherwise. His muscles, though, they felt like they were about to snap from the strain of the tension tugging at them.

"Was it one of the little 'ens," he asked, his voice patronizing. The red twitched and jolted as a shock of further fury went through his brain. "'Cause they don't last too long out here," he finished with a drawl and it was the trigger that Daryl knew was coming, the one he knew his bloodlust wouldn't be able to resist.

"Easy fellas," Joe suddenly appeared, as if out of nowhere to stand between the two. Daryl lowered his knife and did his best to check the red heat of his temper. "Easy," he said as the asshole started to laugh; the sound didn't help that flash of red in its retreat in the slightest.

Daryl realized he had played exactly into this guy's hand, confirmed something that he hadn't meant to give up. For a moment, it made him angrier, his sight turning even redder. But, as quick as it came, it receded, as he realized he didn't give two shits; he'd do it again, if this asshole insisted on talking about her like that.

"Let's just put our weapons down and see if we can't figure out what's really the problem here," Joe started as he lowered his eyes to the rabbit. "You claim it?" he asked the guy who was growing to rank second in Daryl's most hated asshole list.

_Claim it_? he thought. What the _hell_.

"Hell yeah," the guy confirmed with a nod of the head.

"Well, there ya go," Joe said, turning back to him. "That critter belongs to Len."

Len. At least the asshole who managed to rank second to the Governor now had a name.

"So let's have it," Len said.

Daryl wasn't about to hand nothing over; even if he had been in a more civil mind, the tinting of the red of his temper wouldn't have allowed it. So far as he had seen it, he had done the work for this rabbit and Len had just followed him and stole his kill. Even without his distasteful words directed towards Beth, that fact alone was enough to make him hate the man on principle—that just wasn't how things were done when you went hunting. He turned to Joe, knowing what was supposedly expected of him, but not giving any shits about it.

"Looks like you maybe want an explanation," Joe started. Daryl was a bit curious, but, in general, he really didn't care. He had absolutely no desire to get any further ingrained in this group than he already was. They were a means to an end, in his mind.

Regardless, if he was going to be stuck travelling with them until he could find the others, he needed to get a lay of their land. He knew that, even though he really didn't want anything to do it with.

The realization eased the tint of the red a bit. His attention focused in on the leader's explanations, forcing the red to recede more by the minute. Daryl listened to Joe, taking in not only his words, but his expressions and movements—the way he carried himself.

"See, going at it alone? That ain't an option nowadays. Still, it is survival of the fittest," Joe stopped and pointed a finger in Daryl's face, looking as if he were about to drop the greatest idea since someone invented the damn wheel. Daryl seriously doubted that was the case. "That's a paradox, right there."

The sheer shit this guy was shoveling nearly suffocated Daryl. It rolled off of him, in his words, in his moves, in his stance, in the way he carried himself. He seemed to think he was brilliant as shit, with his snobby declarative sentences.

"So," he started again. Daryl listened and allowed the focus to alleviate the red that had flared up once more; he wouldn't deny that he was curious to see what other gems this asshole thought he had. "I laid out some rules of the road, to keep things from going Darwin every couple of hours. Keeps our merry band together and stress free. All we gotta do is claim. That's how you mark your territory, your prey, your bed at night. One word—_claimed_."

Daryl knew instantly that he didn't like it. It didn't take more than common sense to know when something belonged to someone. What the hell did saying it have anything to do with it?

"I ain't claimin' nothin'," he responded, without a moment's hesitation.

One look at Len told Daryl another thing he needed to know; he was damn near excited. He should've expected that. "So we'll teach him, right? The rules say we gotta teach him."

This reference to another apparent rule to their society drew in Daryl's attention to his red hot anger again, but only because he didn't like the sound of it—the rule or the asshole issuing it. His eyes went to Joe and he knew his opinion on this showy asshole would be set by whatever came out of his mouth next.

"Now it wouldn't be fair to punish you for violating a rule you never even knew existed," Joe said and Daryl's eyes ran to Len to read his reaction; as soon as he did, he noticed the red was back like a flare. Len didn't disappoint either, as he grunted in anger and ran a hand through his hair.

With a shock, Daryl realized how closely he was watching these assholes, the sheer concentration he was shelling out for them.

_You know why_, Beth's voice sounded again, and he realized he did. He had always followed his instincts with people, and it had served him pretty well so far in this shithole of a world. He remembered knowing immediately that Shane's bullshit story of Otis' sacrifice was just that—bullshit.

But it wasn't that he read the person, he thought. He could read the situation and get a feel for the truth from what he knew about people in general—particularly with people he had spent a decent chunk of time with. Living in close quarters, like they tended to do now, it made it easier to predict people—what they'd say and what they'd do. From there, he could usually make a pretty decent assumption.

Was that reading someone, he wondered, as he remembered how well Beth had thrived at that task. She had read through him in an instant, from almost the second they had left the prison, even if she hadn't known him very well then, even if she had managed to know him well enough to know better than to push it for some time after the fact. Unlike her, he hadn't been able to read her well—not at first anyway.

But not now. No, now he liked to think he could.

Was this something they had in common? Wasn't he reading these assholes just like she would, if she were here? Sure, the way he may have gone about it was always different from what she had done. But wasn't it the same idea, the same concept—reading the situation and seeing what you could do with it? How you could get out of it, if you needed to?

Before her, he had never seen his ability to see through people like Shane and the Governor as a strength—an ability to be wielded to his advantage. When he had figured out the truth about Otis, he didn't even tell nobody. He had just sat on it, and waited for the other shoe to drop.

But Beth would've used that information, to approach Shane, to approach Rick, to approach her daddy and strike a compromise, to do some good. She would never manipulate, just work to improve anything, everything she could get her hands on.

He could do the same thing, he realized. It was something they had in common, something he hadn't realized till just now. It was something he could use to his advantage, too. If he could read these assholes, read the dynamic of the group, he might be able to find a way to break away unnoticed, might be able to really find a way to use them as a means to an end.

He couldn't do it like she did it—like it was little more than second nature. But, he realized, she had prodded him, taught him, improved his ability with it, as he traced her thoughts and struggled to read through the mystery that was her brain. Daryl needed to harness that—find a middle ground between her thought processes and his own sense of self.

And, just like that, the red had faded nearly entirely, replaced by that damn bright color of her hair—a color that could damn near compete with the sun in sheer wattage.

"There ain't no rules no more," he said, his eyes still glued to Len as he did his best to focus on that yellow, not the lingering red; he found it helped him read through the guy. _His_ bloodlust was nearly gone, but he thought he could feel the pull to fight coming off the twig in waves. It almost made him smirk, as he realized Beth had helped him take the high road in this shit fest.

"Oh, there are," Joe said, drawing his attention yet again. "You know that. That's why I didn't kill you for the crossbow."

Daryl tried to look through the words and perceive what the guy was really getting at. He could appreciate what Joe was saying—and he definitely appreciated that it meant he hadn't had to fight them all off for his own damn weapon—but he still saw a flaw in this system. They claimed to be fair, but only to hold it over you later and force you to make decisions you didn't want to make.

As Daryl got lost in his thoughts, Joe reached in and took the rabbit, prompting an instinctual "hey!" to leave his lips. As blood dripped from his catch, he saw a few dots of red return to his vision, if in a significantly less potent form.

"Easy there, partner," Joe said with a soft tone, but it did nothing for Daryl, as he maintained his hold on the rabbit and looked at him questioningly. "Claimed. That's all ya gotta say," he said, as he chopped the rabbit in half, splattering the surrounding area and Daryl's vision in blood red once more.

"Hey," Joe started again, as he handed Daryl what he assumed would be his piece. "Ass end is still an end." The both walked back towards camp, leaving Daryl to stare disbelievingly at the ground, the red of the blood and of his anger still lingering in his sights.

_Claimed_, he thought, with a scoff. What bullshit.


End file.
